Cigarette
by Lady Kementari
Summary: Summary: He confuses me. I look at him with equal parts terror and attraction. First person pov.  Hints of Kakairu.  Warnings: not much. Very mild sexual content, only a kiss


_Summary_ He confuses me. I look at him with equal parts terror and attraction. First person pov.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing.

_Warnings_: not much. Very mild sexual content, only a kiss.

C&C welcomed and appreciated.

**Cigarette**

The glowing red end of the cigarette illuminates his face. The room is semi dark, and there's only one dim lamp, throwing everything into shifting shadows. I linger by the door, captivated by the man on the bed.

As he exhales, silver-grey smoke swirls before him, and is carried away by the gentle breeze from the open window. Curls of it seem to cling to his lips, as if reluctant to let go.

This man scares, no, _terrifies_ me. There's something about him, something that clings to him. Power? Well he certainly has that. It _radiates_ from him, shimmering waves like heat from a furnace. I'll burn if I touch him. Violence? I see that too. Silver scars criss-cross his lithe body, mapping out a history of pain and blood. He's left a katana on the bedside table, within easy reach, as if people normally leave deadly weapons out naked and glimmering.

He's terrifying me, but he attracts me. There's something in him, a powerful pull that keeps me from running from the room. My heart flutters in my chest as I observe this silent, deadly man.

His head cants and he silently beckons me, simultaneously stubbing out his mostly finished cigarette. Slowly I walk towards him.

Normally, I have an act. I play it shy, soft, sweet. It goes along with my looks, wide brown eyes, tan skin, and soft, shoulder length brown hair. But, in front of _him _I can't do it. Somehow, I can't pretend around him.

He leans forward a little, face coming into the light. Even though he's young, his hair is as silver-grey as his cigarette smoke. I examine the rest of his illuminated face and notice that one eye is an odd blue-grey, the other marred by a scar, and he keeps it shut. I keep on walking, inexplicably drawn, until I find myself standing by the bed. His black pants starkly contrast with his pale skin. He's thin, despite the muscle, hipbones and collarbones jutting out in harsh angles.

He raises his hand, and carefully cups my cheek, rough calloused hands scraping my cheek. As he leans in closer, and I can smell the tobacco on his breath.

"Can I kiss you?" He whispers, his voice rough velvet.

I'm taken aback by the question. He sounds almost shy, completely at odds with his tough exterior. Slowly, I nod. Usually I don't like kissing customers-you kiss a lover, not a whore-but this is different. There's an underlying desperation, an intense sadness lacing those words.

_Can I kiss you?_

I lean in and meet his lips. They are soft, so very, very, soft, probably the only soft part of that hard body. I part my own lips with a small gasp, a real one, not some cheap trick to please, and his tongue slips into my mouth.

His mouth is _cold_. As his tongue curls around mine, I taste smoke, ice and something _else_ something I can't quite place my finger on. His hands come up to stroke my hair, gentle, soft.

Suddenly, he pulls back, breaking off the kiss.

"Not right." He moans, quietly, I can barely catch the words. "You're not him. No scar." He reaches out, brushing the bridge of my nose with a tip of a finger.

I stand back, ice in the pit of my belly. Of course. Who the fuck was I kidding? That wasn't real, he wasn't seeing me; it never is, and they never do.

The other man stands up, and reaches into his pocket. Quickly, he pulls out a wad of money.

"Is 200 ok?" He asks softly.

My chest aches. I stare at the money, feeling dirty.

"But I didn't do anything." I whisper.

The man shrugs and puts the money on the table.

"You can pretend you did. Stay in and sleep, or something." He looks back at me, and pulls a thin black t-shirt over his head. The scars and creamy white skin are concealed again. He pulls a mask up and now his face is hidden. Finally, he puts an odd headband, adorned with a metal plate and pulls it over his scarred eye. He's completely covered; he's only a blue eye now. Sitting up straight, he straps the sword to his back, making sure it's secure.

He goes to the window, throwing it open and climbs out. He pauses, balanced on the sill, when I can't stand it anymore, and ask him.

"Who was he?" The words slip past my lips, jumbled, confused.

He turns back, piercing me with an intense gaze.

"He's dead. He's not coming back" He said shortly.

With that, he leaps out of the window. I rush forward to the window, leaning out as far as I can barely catching a glimpse of him as he runs across the rooftops, a silent, deadly shadow.


End file.
